Wakarusa Devil
by ElvenRanger
Summary: 1885. Sam, living in Chicago, gets a telegram from his brother Dean asking him to return home for the first time in six years, because their father John has gone hunting and hasn't returned.
1. Chapter 1

The stagecoach leaned dangerously, and Samuel Winchester instinctively gripped the leather strap above his head, spreading his other hand flat against the worn seat next to him. The man across from him was unperturbed, shifting his hat lower over his face and folding his arms in a stern, no nonsense way as he went back to sleep. The woman sitting next to him, obviously his wife, smiled at Sam. She held tight to the window sill; she wasn't tall enough to grab the strap.

"Not used to traveling by stagecoach?" she inquired.

"No," said Sam tightly. While he'd attended the university in Chicago, he had mostly walked, or rode, or taken the train when the need arose for it. He'd forgotten that travel by stagecoach still existed, forgotten that Kansas was a young state, and forgotten that there had yet to be a straight road in Kansas. For what seemed like the tenth time in only two days, Sam wished that the railroad station was in Kansas City, and not Witchita.

"So where are you headed?" asked the woman. She had a kind face, and Sam wished he could remember her name. Her husband had introduced them both to him yesterday in the late afternoon as the coach set out, but he had been lost in his own thoughts and both names had quickly escaped him.

"Lawrence," Sam said, tightening his grip as the coach jostled again.

"Oh, you've got a day yet to go, then," she said. "We're headed to Barclay. William's got family there." She glanced at her husband, and there was a tight somber look to her face. There was something in that look that said that their move wasn't temporary, and the shadow behind her eyes said that the reason for it was nothing good, but Sam wasn't about to ask.

"So what brings you to Lawrence?" she asked.

"M'dad," Sam said, slipping into the country dialect easier than thought. He lifted his hand off the seat and touched his hair unconsciously, swaying with the movement of the coach. "He- he passed. Got the telegram last week." Really that wasn't the whole of it. It wasn't even a fraction of it. But there was some truth in it. After all, his daddy might yet be lying dead in a gulch somewhere.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. Sam saw the look in her eye and regretted his deception, because there was a pain there raw and acres deep. He avoided her gaze and looked out the window, tightening his grip on the strap as the stagecoach shuddered through another hole in the road and moved on.

_Everyone seems to have lost someone lately,_ Sam thought, and watched the land roll away beneath the stagecoach.

Every day for seven days after sending the telegram, Dean Winchester sat at the back corner table of the Lawrence saloon and waited for his brother.

He'd mosey into town in the early afternoon, when the sun shone down hot, and the dust rose easily into lazy mushroom clouds at every step, riding in on that big black mare inexplicably named Impala. He hitched her up to the post, loose and easy, so she could break free if the need came. He made sure the water was clean and that she had enough feed, and then drag his hands roughly through her shaggy mane, his deft fingers pulling apart the tangles. The men joked that he'd never love a woman as much as he loved his horse, but the women knew the truth of it. Any man who loved a horse like that was worth loving hopelessly, and many of them did.

He'd step onto the long boardwalk, smacking the dust off his jeans with quick pats. And if a woman crossed his path, he'd pause and touch his hand to his hat, smiling as if she was the prettiest thing in the world. "Ma'am," he'd say, giving her a moment's pause before continuing on his way.

The saloon was dark and quiet at that time of day. The piano player had the piano open, parts askew, tuning and oiling, humming as he worked. The bartender cleaned the bar and the glasses slowly and with the same rag he'd used for ten years. The town drunks were already there, deep into their cups. As the day got on toward dusk, the saloon would fill with people, and the piano player would take up his tunes, and the drunks would slump at the bar, and Dean would help throw them out into the cool night air. But for now he greeted the bartender, who smiled, and asked on his father.

"He's keepin' on," said Dean. Every day it became more of a lie, and it never fell off his tongue as easy as he'd like, but every day the bartender accepted it without question.

"Still waitin' on your brother?" he asked.

"He'll be along soon enough," Dean drawled. "The usual, if ya don't mind."

"Hey there, Dean," called the pianist.

"Hey, Wally," said Dean, sauntering over to clasp his arm, regardless of the oil and gear grease. The pianist's name was Walter, but he was Wally to his friends, and he had quite a few of them.

"You tunin' this old thing _again_? Seems like you tuned 'er just last week." Dean said, peering down at the hammers and strings. He liked to look at the way things worked, like pianos and telegram machines. A couple months back he'd gotten a look at the inside of a steam engine. Now that there had been a machine. People said that soon there'd be telephones, conversations across lines. People said that some day all these contraptions would be common place, that people would take 'em for granted. Dean himself couldn't imagine such things. He loved the machines, loved seeing them operate, their insides working with gears instead of guts. But it was a love of the unfamiliar, the strange; machines were an oddity to him, not common, and certainly not the future.

"I did tune 'er, yeah," said Wally. He sighed. "She's a mean ole bitch, but she plays downright perdy when she's got a mind ta."

"That she does," said Dean. He patted Wally's shoulder once, and moved along. He went to the back table and threw his hat down on it, ruffling through his short sandy hair with one hand as he sat down in the chair facing the door. Sometimes he put his boots on the table. Sometimes he sat back with his arms folded and his legs stretched out in front of him like timber. But always he was settling in for the long wait.

Every day for seven days after sending the telegram, Dean Winchester sat at the back corner table of the Lawrence saloon and waited for his brother.

Not that he often waited alone. As more and more people filed in, done for the day and looking for some booze and talk and maybe a little sin, men would sit at Dean's table. Farmers and homesteaders and trappers and deputies and mayors and sheriffs, all of them would come by, sit at his table, play a couple hands of cards or just talk and laugh. Dean welcomed the company, avoiding the silence of his own thoughts and suspicions. Those could wait for those lonely rides back to the ranch, to a house where his father didn't wait for him. And the men welcomed him, because he was John Winchester's boy, and a good man all on his own besides.

On the eighth day Dean was just picking up his second beer when his brother Sam came back to town.

Sam looked out the window as the stagecoach finally came to a stop, and decided that Lawrence was smaller and even dustier than he remembered. The street was wide and busy, but that just hid the fact that there was only one long main drag. Women in brightly colored dresses with dirty hems walked up and down the boardwalk, socializing in the only way they knew. The town was noisy with the business of the town, but compared to the clamor of Chicago, Lawrence seemed positively silent. Sam tried not to feel disappointed; somehow he'd thought that four years would be enough time for the town of his childhood to catch up with the rest of the modern world.

_Apparently not, _he thought distastefully, as he got out of the carriage, carefully avoiding the horse droppings that littered the road to spare his shiny black shoes. He should really have worn his hardier boots, but he hadn't thought to change his shoes.

The stagecoach driver threw down his bag at him, and Sam caught it. It was a small bag, with only a few extra sets of clothing; he didn't expect to be here long. Though where he'd go he didn't sure he could say.

"So long, Mister Winchester," the stagecoach driver said around a mouthful of chewing tobacco. He picked up his reins and his whip, but Sam raised his arm, bringing the driver to pause.

"When does the next coach come through?" Sam asked.

The man chewed thoughtfully, and then spat into the dirt. "Wheeell…I'll be back 'ere in town in a week or so. After that, there'll be another coach in about a month I reckon…'less you send out a telegram or sumthin'."

"Thank you. And good travels!" added Sam as the reins snapped tight and the horses shifted into action. The driver favored him with a tip of his hat, and then he was gone, in a cloud of pale fine dust.

Sam took a moment, getting his bearings in this town that was so familiar, and yet felt different. But it was just an illusion; he was the one who had changed, not the town. Maybe he shouldn't have come, maybe he's just too different now – he pushed those thoughts aside. His family needed him, and he wouldn't be any kind of man if he didn't help his family when they needed him. Besides, Chicago had nothing left for him. Not anymore. He lifted his bag and walked off the street and into the shadows of the boardwalk, where the saloon and his brother waited.

He saw his brother's horse standing placidly outside, but when he first entered the saloon, he couldn't find his brother, blinded by the brightness of the day in the cool dark of the saloon. His eyes moved from the bar to the piano, and then to the back corner of the room.

Dean sat with his feet propped up on the table, his boots caked with dirt and mud, among other more unpleasant things. He wore jeans, and a long leather duster, and a blue plaid shirt that had seen a few washings. As Sam approached, Dean put down his glass of beer and tipped his hat back with his thumb to look at his brother properly, and all Sam could think was same old Dean.

Sam stopped in front of his brother, feeling stupid and out of place, in his nice suit and his fancy coat and his damn shiny black shoes. Dean looked him up and down, taking in every detail, and Sam shifted uncomfortably. He was used to the short glances of the city, not these long slow studied looks his brother had always favored. Finally his eyes returned to his brother's face, and Dean said,

"Took you long enough."

He got to his feet, and strode out of the bar and into the sunlight. Sam scrambled after him to follow, feeling foolish and fourteen, because no less than five minutes and already he was chasing after his big brother all over again.


	2. Chapter 2

The Winchester homestead was several miles south of Lawrence by the windy Wakarusa River, though it wasn't near enough to the river to be in any danger during the yearly floods. It was good land, claimed by their grandfather, Edward Winchester, and kept through the years by sheer determination, blood, sweat, and tears, and the business end of a sawed-off shotgun. They didn't grow much, only enough for the family to live off of, but they had a good head of cattle that kept them well off in trade for anything they needed they couldn't grow. It was a lonely place, far out in the wild, away from the world, but a peaceful place too. The women who had lived there had complained of its loneliness, but never enough to want to leave. The peace of the place stole over you like a spell, wrapping you in the safety of the smell of earth and rumbling of cattle, lulling you with sunshine dappled through weeping willow trees.

Mary Winchester had changed all that, not with her life, but her death. Her murder broke the spell of the place, casting a dissonance, an unease that had never abated in all the years the Winchester boys had lived there. Perhaps it was the nature of her death - violent, and never quite explained, but no one had ever suspected John Winchester, no, not ever. Perhaps it was the way John carried her with him, his heart so heavy with the weight of her that he couldn't help but imbue everything with her presence. Whatever the reason, the homestead had become a melancholy, disenchanted place, and though the Winchesters were well liked and welcome, few ventured out to the homestead.

The dwindling visits had taken a toll on the road. Nature worked quickly out on the frontier, and the wagon tracks that had once run in deep ruts had filled with frothy grasses. The paths had all but faded from memory, so that the track Dean and his brother Sam followed now was little more than a deer trail.

Sam's horse pulled against him, fighting him at first for every step. She was borrowed from a friend of Dean's that owed him a little coin, but Sam was sure he'd been given the worst of the lot.

Dean pulled up beside him. "Loose 'er reins," he said gruffly. "She's got a sore mouth, she won't ride with the bit."

"Maybe she's just bad tempered."

"Look it her drop her head to shy from the bit. Sammy boy, did you forget everythin' dad taught you?" Dean asked. "Or did you have to make room for all them big ideas they taught you in the university?"

Sam sidestepped Dean's comment. "So what do you suggest I do, if she won't defer to me?"

Dean rubbed his hand over his mouth, staring thoughtfully in the distance. Then his fingers slid down his chin, moving across his body to the pommel of his saddle. He dismounted in one quick fluid movement. "Give 'er over to me," he said. "I'd guess you haven't handled a horse without a bit in some time, so I'll take this un, and you can ride my Impala. She's a sweet one, should treat ya right."

They switched horses, Sam swinging up into Impala's warm brown saddle, while Dean took off the bridle and bit. He unhooked a length of rope off his saddle and made a slipknot. He looped it around the borrowed horse's neck, tight, but not too tight. "There now, darlin'," Dean murmured, sliding a hand down her neck comfortingly. "Ain't that better?"

"She won't mind you with lead-"

"You tend to yours, Sammy," Dean said, maybe a little sharper than he meant to. "I'll tend to mine."

He swung up into the saddle and took the loop of rope in his callused hands. "Git on now," he murmured, tapping the mare's sides gently. They moved on down the trail, leaving Sam to trail behind.

The rest of the ride was carried out mostly in terse silence. Sam, previously impatient to know the who, what, where and why of things, had already been caught up in the melancholy enchantment of the place. He sat lost in thought, riding easily on Impala's even gait. Dean let him be, leaving him to his thoughts, whatever they might have been. He wasn't keen to talk yet, not with the open air about him, and the day getting on toward night. He wasn't a particularly superstitious man by nature, but there were some things that shouldn't be spoken of at dusk under an open sky. There was too much power there.

But at the same time, it wasn't in him to keep silent, not when the dying day still looked so fine. The sun was sinking low on the horizon, making the shadows stretch low and long over the grassy landscape. The trees in the distance by the river were bright and beautiful, and the horizon was stained with color, pink orange red, in every conceivable hue.

The day was too fine to say nothing, so he whistled, and hummed snatches of tunes to himself. One song in particular caught his fancy, and he sang it out loud.

"Ruby lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine, but alack I was no swimmer,

So I lost my-"

"Stop."

Dean paused midline. "I was just singin'."

"I ain't-I'm not complaining about the singing," said Sam. "I just – I can't hear that song just now."

Dean would have complained, but then the memories trickled back to that telegram Sam had sent him some three months previous. And he realized he could not have picked a worse song. "'m sorry, Sam."

"Yeah, well, just sing something else is all," said Sam.

"Is there one you'd like to hear?" Dean asked.

"Any one but that one," said Sam. But there were so many songs that Dean knew better than to sing just then, because six years apart were nothing and Sam was still Sam. So he sang a bawdy song about a Tennessee whore, and Sam cringed and forgot his troubles, if for a moment. And they were brothers again.

Dusk was hanging heavy on the horizon, the colors beginning to bleed into the horizon with the violent palette of a late Monet painting, when they reached the gate. Sam was glad to see it, old and rickety as it was. Two days of restless sleep on stagecoach, and now this lengthy ride had left him exhausted, half-asleep in the saddle. Dean opened the gate and they went through. Dean closed the gate behind them, and remounted, and they continued following the road. Sam knew that it was still some distance until they reached the house, but his spirits had lifted somewhat, seeing the familiar gate. He was home, on family ground, and it was hard to shake the feeling that nothing would hurt him here. The horse's steady gait and the feeling of familiarity lulled him into a fuzzy doze, and then his eyes fluttered once and closed.

_Jessica pounded on the ice, her breath escaping in bubbles that grew smaller and smaller. Sam hit the ice, again and again, until his knuckles were bleeding and his hands felt broken. But he could not break the glassy ice. Her movements stilled, her hair floating nebulous about her face. But her mouth still worked open and closed, and Sam could swear he heard her words_

_"Why Sam? Why? Sam. Sam-_

"Sam."

Sam jerked awake, as much from his brother's touch on his shoulder as from his voice.

"You all right?" asked Dean. "You look pale."

"It's nothing," said Sam, passing a hand across his eyes. "I'm just tired."

Dean looked at him, long and hard, and Sam tried not to fidget under his brother's unrelenting gaze. "We'll, we're 'ere," Dean said finally, "or nearly so."

Sam shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs and sat straighter in the saddle as they rounded a bend and the trees and brush cleared away. He smiled. Home.

The land before them sloped gently down to the Wakarusa River, a shining river in the evening light. Half the land he could see was cattle, ranged near the holding pen, anticipating the coming of both night and nocturnal hunters. Sam could hear their low bellowing even from this distance, and smell them strongly. There seemed so many of them.

"Is there anyone helping you?" Sam asked.

"When we take 'em out to range, yeah, we'll get some hands from town. But mostly it's just me'n dad."

"Seems awfully lonely."

Dean looked down at the cattle and the house, rubbing his mouth thoughtfully. "Naw," he said finally. "It ain't lonely. It's home."

The house was outlined by the dying light when they reached it, a black monolith a little distance from the river. They dismounted and tended their horses, pulling off saddle and bridle and blanket to pile it all on the fence of the loose box horse pen. Dean dragged his fingers through Impala's mane, while Sam leaned on the fence and waited for Dean to finish.

"You gonna make love to 'er, or can we go inside?"

"Shut yer yap."

On the black porch was a dirty oil lamp, unlit. Dean fished around in his pockets, eventually drawing out a box of matches. He struck the match, the ignition compound spitting and flaring blue-white in the dark.

He used it to light the lamp, and flicked the match to extinguish it. He gestured for Sam to follow, and opened the door. They disappeared into the house.

Everything was just as Sam remembered, and he thought maybe that was a bad thing. The old staircase, the pictures and paintings on the walls, the peeling wallpapers, they were all exactly the same, except for a thickening layer of dust and the yellowish tinge to the pictures. And though everything looked the same, the house was different. The Winchester house had never been exactly happy, but what little life and light this place had once possessed seemed to have fled. Without John Winchester, the house felt cold, tired and unfriendly, like an old blind dog separated from its master.

The hallway opened onto the kitchen. This room felt more alive, and Sam unconsciously relaxed, soothed by the clean cabinets and the dishes piled by the wash basin and the bunch of river flowers sitting in water in a vase by the window.

"Are you pickin' flowers now?" asked Sam, as he pulled out one of the kitchen chairs. He remembered when the seats had been too big for him, and his feet hadn't reached the floor. Now his legs stuck out far under the table, and the seat felt just a little too small.

Dean paused and glanced at the flowers. The light of the oil lamp flickered across his face. He reached up above the table and lit the oil lamp that hung there. The room brightened. "We don't got much to eat," said Dean finally. "Mrs. Harris from town gave me some biscuits afore you showed yer mangy face, and last I checked we had some apples round here somewhere, but they may've rotted now. Though if yer real hungry there's always the smokehouse."

"I ain't that hungry. I'll eat whatever you got to offer," said Sam, choosing to ignore Dean's subject change, at least for now, "If I don't nod off first, that is."

"You that tired?" Dean asked, slinging the canvas bag filled with biscuits on the table before he turned to rummage in the cabinets. "I was hopin' to speak with ya a bit afore we turned in."

"Nah, I could stand to be awake a little longer. Got any coffee?"

Dean dug around in the cabinet some more and pulled out an old tin can. Sam was immediately reminded of his father. "We got coffee, sure," said Dean. "Won't taste too good though. These grounds are a bit old, I reckon."

Sam shrugged. "Never does." He took a biscuit from the bag and ate while he watched his brother work. Dean brought the water to a boil, then added the grounds, working with swift efficiency, his fingers moving, always moving. The kitchen, like everywhere else in the house, was old and a little dirty. The table was dusty; Sam's fingers left little trails in the fine dust when he ran his hand along the surface.

Dean looked over, noticing Sam's look. "We usually keep things cleaner," he began, leaning against the wall while he let the coffee grounds settle, "but with Dad gone I been real busy."

"How is dad?" Sam asked. "Where is dad?"

Dean took the pan off the stove and poured the coffee carefully into two tin cups. He replaced the pan and then picked up the two cups, keeping one for himself and passing the other to Sam as he sat down in the chair opposite his little brother. Sam took a gulp and grimaced.

"I warned you," said Dean. He pulled out a flask and splashed some liquid in his cup.

"Ain't bad, just stronger than I'm used to," said Sam. "That whiskey?" Dean nodded and slid the flask across the table.

"As to dad, I don't know a whole lot. And uh… I'm not sure how ta begin."

"Begin at the beginning," said Sam. "What other way is there?"

"Well then," said Dean, fishing in the pocket of his faded shirt for the cigarettes he had tucked away there that morning. He brought it up to his mouth and tucked it between his lips. Another match left the matchbook, was struck against the sandpaper _kshisshhh!_, and was lifted to the cigarette in his mouth. The flame flared as Dean inhaled, pulling the embers toward his mouth, and then with a flick of his wrist he killed the match. He blew a thoughtful cloud of fragrant smoke into the air, holding the cigarette loosely between his fingers, and leaned just slightly forward.

"This is how the story goes…"

"When dad was a little boy, he knew a little girl named Grace Thomas. She lived on a neighboring farm and every Sunday they'd play together. There weren't many children nearby, so dad and Grace were fast friends.

One day, little Sarah Wilkins from town was playing by the river with her brothers. She walked around a bend in the river and disappeared. The town's people were upset, and searched everywhere for tirelessly for days. In the end they assumed she had drowned, and the river had taken her body far downstream. But when a second girl disappeared a week after Sarah, and a third girl the week after, the town entered a state of panic. Who was taking their little girls?

Old Red, the Indian who chose to trade with the townsfolk, said they shouldn't be asking 'who?' but 'what?'. They ran him out of town.

The next Sunday, John went up to Grace after church. She was standing quietly with her parents.

'I can't play today, John,' she said.

'Why not?' he asked.

'Lizzie Banks went missin' yesterday,' she said. 'She was playin' by the river.'

'Well, we won't go to the river, we'll play by the rocks.' John looked up at Grace's mother. 'Please ma'am, I promise we won't go near that river.' And Grace's mother let them go.

They played on the rocks, jumping, climbing, imaginin' all day. But their imagination took them wandering, and their wandering ended them up at the river.

'We ain't supposed to be here!' Grace said.

'It'll be fine, Gracie,' he said, looking around, trying to get his bearings. They couldn't go back the way they came, the incline was too steep, the rocks weren't stable.

'We'll just walk by the river for a pace, till we get to a place that ain't so steep, and then we'll go on home, and my momma will make the best apple pie you never tasted.'

'Liar," she said. 'My momma's pie's better.'

They were walking along the river, and this is where John swears he only took his eyes off her for a second. And when he looked back, she was gone. All that was left was a little blood on a stone and her pretty pink ribbon, waving in the clear water.

He ran home, told his parents, and a search was called, and they looked and looked for Grace Thomas, like they'd been looking for Sarah Wilkins and Lizzie Banks. They never found any of them, but they remembered what Old Red had said. The menfolk gathered their weapons, and they went to the Indian village. They killed all they saw and burned their dwelling places to the ground, but that didn't bring their children back.

"So what's this got to do with dad now?" asked Sam.

"Two weeks ago, little girl went missin'," said Dean. "Then another a few days later. When they went missin', the last place they'd been seen was by the Wakarusa river."

"Dad figured they were connected?"

"More'n just that," Dean said. "Dad remembered somethin'." He leaned forward, lowering his voice a little. These things might be safer to talk about indoors, with light about, but he wasn't about to try his luck. "He figured he'd made himself fergit it, what he saw."

"What did he see?"

"Well, he said he didn't see it well," said Dean. "It was quick. But he said he saw some kind of monster. Snapped up that little girl Gracie and carried her off up river, quick as breath. Somethin' took her."

"And lemmee guess," Sam said. "Dad got some idea of vengeance or retribution into his head and went after the thing?"

"So far as I can guess," said Dean. "He left durin' the night. Left me this here note," Dean said, extracting a worn piece of folded paper from a pocket in his jacket and handing it to Sam. It unfolded easily; Sam thought Dean had probably read it at least two dozen times. Nevertheless, he read it aloud.

"'Dean, I know what's been going after those girls. It's the monster from my memory, the one that took my friend Grace. And now it's taking again, and that I cannot abide. I'm hoping I return, well and whole and victorious. But if I don't, don't you dare come looking for me. There is only death where I go.'" Sam looked at Dean. "We have to find him."

"I reckon we do," said Dean lightly, though there was no humor in his face. "But there's naught we can do 'bout that tonight, so I think we'd best turn in."

"Where am I sleeping?" Sam asked.

"Might as well take Dad's room," said Dean. "I don't think your room's particularly homey at the moment."

"All right," said Sam. He unhooked the light above the kitchen table and walked toward the dark hallway.

"Sam?"

He turned. Dean was only partially lit in the half-light, and suddenly Sam remembered how much Dean looked like their father.

"It's good to have you home."


End file.
